Delicious
by conclusivelead
Summary: Dean owns a chocolate factory and Sam finds a Golden Ticket. “There is a smear of dark on the back of his hand. Sam wants nothing more than to lean forward and place his lips against that bronze, taste the bitter of chocolate - the sweet of skin.” AU, D/S
1. o1 & o2

**Title**: Delicious  
**Author**: conclusivelead.  
**Pairing: **Dean/Sam  
**Burton Movie**: Charlie & the Chocolate Factory.  
**Rating**: R – NC-17.  
**Category**: Angst, drama, darkfic, romance  
**Word Count**: 1,379.  
**Spoilers**: None; AU.  
**Summary**: "There is a smear of dark on the back of his hand and Sam wants nothing more than to lean forward and place his lips against that bronze and taste the bitter of chocolate and the sweet of skin."  
**Warnings**: AU, chocolate!Kink, introspection, vagueness, cursing, violence, death, frotting, UST, campiness  
**Notes**: To start with, this is NOT posted in the Crossover section of this site, because there are no actual characters from C&tCF in this story. In this fic, the SPN characters have simply been thrust into the roles of C&tCF characters. So this is more along the lines of a SPN AU than an actual crossover. I hope you will indulge my reasoning.

Mostly? I have no excuses. V_V *hangs head in shame* This SHOULD be labeled as campy and ridiculous PWP, but it's kind of got a plot, since it follows the whole 'C&tCF tour through the factory' deal. In this fic, Sam is about seventeen and Dean is in his early-to-mid thirties in order to make the storyline plausible. In order to make everything work out, I've deviated a bit from the weirdness/silliness of the Willy Wonka of the Tim Burton film and taken mostly just the basics of the whole Charlie and the Chocolate Factory storyline and made it dark/violent and lonely and a bit more believable. So – no Oompa Loompas or squirrels/geese. I hope this doesn't get me flamed to death. There **is** a candy room, a chocolate river, and a glass elevator!

The entire fic is nearly completed; I've only got one chapter to go before it's all wrapped up. I'll post parts o3 & o4 next Thursday. :3

**Disclaimer**: Supernatural is the property of Kripke and the CW network. I do not own Supernatural and there is no profit being made from this fanfiction. I also own neither Charlie and the Chocolate Factory or Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

**DELICIOUS 1/5**  
A SPN/Charlie & the Chocolate Factory Crossover…of Sorts

o1

Chocolate.

Streams and streams and cascades and cascades of pure, melted chocolate, and it's all his.

Green eyes are blank, absent with remembering, unfocused and beautiful and staring.

He sits in candy grass, on a candy hill, under a candy tree, and stares at his chocolate waterfall.

There is an insignificant rustling at the man's side, but he ignores it and instead continues to be lost in a collage of fragmental nothings –

…_the house is squeezed between all the other houses, stiff and compact and more orderly than all the other houses on the block. There is a railed front step leading to the front door, next to which there is a shiny bronze plaque that he looks at inadvertently every single time he lands upon the top step…_

…_Halloween was always his favorite holiday, because he was able to escape from the house for a short while, even if it was just a very short while. His father never wasn't happy about it, but he nonetheless let his son go out all dressed up and venture from home to home with a bag in his left hand and an excited grin on his face, stretching from ear to ear. And every year when the little boy came home he would take the bag from his left hand and spill the contents across the kitchen table and…_

…_fingers wrapped around several pieces at once, hot around the wrapping and melting the contraband treat inside, and John Winchester's mouth was twisted in distaste and there was a sad, sad look in young green eyes as fingers squeezed tighter…_

…_hands clench and there is a fire lit in the fireplace, burning hot to keep the bite of winter from the room and John throws and chocolate melts and the room is unbearably hot and sweat slides, slides - _

Sweat clings to his skin and slides down his neck into the velvet collar of his maroon jacket. He reaches back and wipes his gloved hand across his nape, a momentary relief. His eyes never leave the chocolate waterfall. His hand falls from the back of his neck to drift across the blades of candy grass, which bend beneath the light strain of his pressing fingers…bending, bending, bending, until _snap_ – the spun sugar finally gives and breaks, only so sturdy.

The spun sugar grass is tiny and the snapping can't really make any noise at all, but it seems to draw the strange man from his reverie. Glazed eyes suddenly clear and focus and limp limbs straighten and stiffen ever so slightly.

He runs his fingers up and down the arm of his blazer, the velvet clinging strangely to his soft white gloves. There is a hole somewhere deep inside him, a hole from which a strange, vast darkness has been unfurling for quite some time and lately has been growing at an almost crippling rate. He feels it clawing at his lungs and tearing at his heart and pushing at his ribs, bending them back and trying to push itself out from in between the tissue it has been killing. It tries to slither out from between the broken fragments of his ribcage and soak into his skin and turn his outside as ugly and broken as his inside.

He wraps his arms around himself and lowers his eyes from the aesthetic beauty about him, searching for something else and finding it lacking.

There is a loud whooshing in his head, and he cannot truly be certain if it's from the nearby crashing of chocolate against chocolate of the waterfall or from still-burning flames of the fireplace in his head.

Whatever peace he'd felt from this room is gone, and he stands to leave. His velvet suit is somehow unwrinkled and it falls into place smoothly against his form. He quickly adjusts the gray satin tie beneath his blazer and turns and walks away from the waterfall, spun sugar grass crushed beneath every step, but the whooshing in his head doesn't go away.

He leaves the room and travels the length of the factory to the upper levels, where the rooms have been converted into living quarters. The walls are a deep red and the hardwood floors are covered in carpets, and there is a fire lit in most every room, and he is clad in velvet and satin, but he is cold, even so. He glances at the clock – 7:30.

A white sheen of frost has crept up along the border of the glass of this window sometime over the night. He takes barely any notice of this as he settles down before the glass and uses his white glove to rub at the pane absentmindedly.

Through the frost, and through the light snow that has begun to fall outside, he sees the gates of the factory, and the familiar, tall figure standing there. His breath catches in his throat, and both gloved hands come to rest against the glass. The exploding emptiness in him retreats a little at the sight of curly brown hair and lanky limbs and a shivering frame and he knows that the barrenness that has been with him for so long is no longer just a benevolent un-growth but a yearning, needing **hunger**, and for the first time in a long time, he knows just what he is hungry for.

Not chocolate, not sugar, not something that is safely within reach, but something – someone…someone with brown hair and hazel eyes and long legs and the same desperate, hungry obsession in his eyes that lies within his own.

o2

"Geoffrey…is it on? Is it – You bloody idiot, is the camera - Hello, folks! This is Bela Talbot coming to you live from Santa Fe, New Mexico, where the first of the five Golden Tickets has been discovered by twenty-three-year-old Meg Masters. We were lucky to be invited into Miss Masters' home for an interview earlier this evening for an interview. Geoffrey, if you will roll that tape now-"

**Miss Masters, thank you so much for inviting us into your lovely home.**

Of course, Bela, anything.

**So, please – enlighten us. Just how exciting is it to have found the first of the Golden Tickets? Are you just pleased as punch to have won this chance to enter to the Winchester Chocolate Factory?**

It's definitely exciting, but I'm really in it for the scoop. Just where the hell has this Winchester guy been hiding away all these years anyway? I'm thinking about writing a book about the whole experience. I'm a journalism major, you see…

-

"Bela Talbot here with the scoop about the newest founder of a Golden Ticket - Miss Ruby Carpenter from New York! The glamorous twenty-one-year-old Carpenter is daughter of well-known artist Emille Carpenter and heir to the Carpenter family fortune. Earlier today, Miss Carpenter expressed her dislike for chocolate but her enthusiasm for enigmatic chocolatier Dean Winchester…"

-

"Another Golden Ticket has been found, ladies and gentlemen! Hello, my name is Bela Talbot, reporting for KRQUE, and I'm coming to you live from Seattle, Washington, where a third lucky person has found a Golden Ticket that will grant them access to the world-renowned Winchester Chocolate Factory, the owner of which – mysterious and apparently camera-shy Mr. Dean Winchester – has decided to open up to five blessed customers! The third ticket was found this morning at approximately ten-fifteen inside a Winchester Bar, the factory's most popular item, by Mr. Uriel Gregory, a native of Seattle and longtime chocolate enthusiast. While Mr. Gregory has not granted any interviews as of yet, it has been confirmed by experts that the ticket is, in fact, genuine…"

-

"Not even forty-eight hours later and already we have another Golden Ticket on our hands. Bela Talbot here, reporting to you from a suburb of Richmond, Virginia, where a very lucky little girl has just discovered the second-to-last of the five much-desired Winchester Golden Tickets. Lilith Cast, eight years old, unwrapped her Golden Ticket just today to the shock and delight of her very thrilled parents during quite possibly the best birthday party a little girl could ask for. Ahaha, childhood is a wonderful time, indeed. Still, with only one Golden Ticket left, the world is left wondering – just into whose fortunate hands will it fall? Back to you, Don."

TO BE CONTINUED.


	2. o3 & o4

**Title**: Delicious  
**Author**: conclusivelead.  
**Pairing: **Dean/Sam  
**Burton Movie**: Charlie & the Chocolate Factory.  
**Rating**: R – NC-17.  
**Category**: Angst, drama, darkfic, romance  
**Word Count**: 4,799.  
**Spoilers**: None; AU.  
**Summary**: "There is a smear of dark on the back of his hand and Sam wants nothing more than to lean forward and place his lips against that bronze and taste the bitter of chocolate and the sweet of skin."  
**Warnings**: AU, chocolate!Kink, introspection, vagueness, cursing, violence, death, frotting, UST, campiness  
**Notes**: To start with, this is NOT posted in the Crossover section of this site, because there are no actual characters from C&tCF in this story. In this fic, the SPN characters have simply been thrust into the roles of C&tCF characters. So this is more along the lines of a SPN AU than an actual crossover. I hope you will indulge my reasoning.

Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! I said I would post this yesterday, but I was sick and ended up passing out, so I hope you'll excuse it being a day late. Thanks to everyone who reviewed the first two parts! Enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: Supernatural is the property of Kripke and the CW network. I do not own Supernatural and there is no profit being made from this fanfiction. I also own neither Charlie and the Chocolate Factory or Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

**DELICIOUS 2/5**  
A SPN/Charlie & the Chocolate Factory Crossover…of Sorts

o3

5…10…35…

Jingle, jingle.

The loose change in Sam's pocket rattles sparsely against the threadbare cloth of his worn jeans. His fingers brush against the coins lightly, tallying the total sum. Is there enough? He glances up from where his long fingers are invisibly counting up the money and into the display window. Frost borders the glass and Sam's breath is a transparent, swimming cloud of white.

WINCHESTER SCRUMPDIDLYUMPTIOUS BAR!  
FIND THE FIFTH & FINAL GOLDEN TICKET &WIN A TOUR OF THE WORLD-FAMOUS WINCHESTER FACTORY!  
LOWEST PRICE IN TOWN - ONLY 2.99!

75…80…$1.05? No, that's a nickel. 85… now he has no idea what he's counted and what he's not. Sighing, Sam's fingers stop rifling through the coins and instead pull them out and lay them flat across his palm.

Five…no, six quarters, four nickels, five dimes, and twelve pennies - $2.32.

Sam sighs and his fingers curl into a fist around the handful of coins. Wind blasts at his face, refreezing his already frozen skin and playing with the hair that has escaped his beanie and now tickles his forehead. He absentmindedly swipes at it, annoyed… $2.32.

Yellow and red and orange and white and black tease his gaze, the advertisement swirling together in a haze as Sam's eyes tear up, the cold and the snow and the wind beginning to grow painful. He switches the coins from his left hand to his right and then back again and then switches once more, eying the off-center advertisement regretfully. Golden Tickets…the Winchester Factory…

Grandpa Bobby has been telling Sam stories about the Winchester Chocolate Factory since he was a child. His grandfather knows all about the factory and its mysterious owner, Dean Winchester, because he worked as a candy-wrapper there when Sam was young. He still remembers when Grandpa Bobby was fired, along with every other worker in the factory, about ten years ago. Grandpa Bobby had been crushed because he had loved his job, and Sam had been crushed for him.

Sam remembers how livid most people had been; Mr. Winchester is said to be a very young man, and many of the workers had been both offended and ashamed of losing their jobs all because of a 'boy's' whimsy. To this day, very few people knew for sure just why Mr. Winchester had closed his factory to the public…Grandpa Bobby had told Sam that it was because Mr. Winchester had been tired of people trying to steal his candy recipes. Apparently there had been several attempts to send spies into the factories disguised as workers…needless to say, Mr. Winchester had found out and things hadn't ended well. All of the public workers had been fired and the factory is now run entirely by private means.

Sam remembers walking to school every day for seven years and passing the shut, padlocked gates of the Winchester Factory. He remembers pausing every single morning for seven years and standing in front of the factory gates, fingers clenched about the bars of the gate and staring up at the quiet, impressive building. He remembers trying to open those gates time and time again, trying to get inside, get through – feeling as though he just **had** to get inside, as though there would always be something wrong with his world so long as he was outside those gates and…that hidden, enigmatic dream that he'd been having ever since Grandpa Bobby first began telling him stories about the factory and Mr. Winchester…remained inside them. He remembers staring up at the barred windows of the factory and hungering for something that wasn't quite chocolate and wasn't quite anything else, either.

The bright colors of the advertisement bring him back to reality and he stares, wide-eyed, at the poster. Sam is utterly enthralled with the idea of winning, but Sam is also smart. Five Golden Tickets worldwide and four already have been found.

Jingle, jingle as he shifts in place, one foot to the other and then back again. He thinks about checking the time, but then banishes the thought from his mind. It's only been an hour…unlikely that his mom will be worrying where he is just yet.

Sam blinks to comfort his irritated eyes and looks back up into the display. The advertisement has been scotch-taped to the window. The tape holding up the top left corner has been peeled away by some bored pedestrian and curls down over a good portion of the poster, blocking something just from Sam's view. Just barely, he sees what looks to be the silhouette of a profile…

He blinks again and the wind blows and sends a shiver down Sam's back. The cold air rubs against chaffed ears and burns. He reaches out to push back the corner of the poster, curious. In all the stories he's ever been told of the chocolate factory, he has only heard vague descriptions of Mr. Winchester himself, as though Grandpa Bobby barely knew his employer or for some reason couldn't remember just what he was like…

A silhouetted profile is stamped in the upper left corner – a sharp, straight nose, strong chin, smooth forehead. It is simple and absent of detail, but Sam is…captivated. He fills in the face himself, mind putting together a mesh of faces into one face, **his **face.

A beautiful face to fit that perfect profile and fill in the spaces of Grandpa Bobby's stories.

Sam stands there, hand pressing the edge flat against the glass and eyes fixated on that simple profile, for how long he's not sure. When he takes his hand away, though, the corner falls, the poster curling in on itself again. His fingers are numb.

Sam shifts the change back and forth one last time and shoves his hands into his pockets. He uncurls the fingers of his right hand, allowing the change to fall down into the cloth and his pointer finger brushes against paper.

He pauses, frozen.

Fingers clench again and Sam's hand is out of his pocket and he is staring at a one dollar bill…

…$3.32.

Sam glances up at the banner once again.

WINCHESTER SCRUMPDIDLYUMPTIOUS BAR!  
FIND THE FIFTH & FINAL GOLDEN TICKET &WIN A TOUR OF THE WORLD-FAMOUS WINCHESTER FACTORY!  
LOWEST PRICE IN TOWN - ONLY 2.99!

He enters the store without hesitancy and drops the various coins onto the counter before laying the dollar on top. Candy bars line the walls and lollipops hang in bunches from the ceiling, but Sam's eye is drawn to a small ad that has been taped onto the counter near the cash register. SALE! WINCHESTER WHIPPLE-SCRUMPTIOUS FUDEMALLOW DELIGHT BARS, ONLY 1.25 FOR A LIMITED TIME!

For a moment, Sam contemplates buying a Scrumpdidylumptious Bar anyway. They **are** his favorite, and he never really has the money to buy them, but reconsiders quickly. With $3.32, he can buy two Whipple-Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight Bars and take one back to Grandpa Bobby. Fudgemallow Delights were **Bobby's** favorite.

The man at the counter gives Sam an assessing look as the young man pushes the loose change forward across the chilled glass counter, and then smiles. "I've seen you before," the man says, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. "You're Ellen's boy. I've been expecting you."

Sam doesn't recognize him, but smiles. "Yeah, that's right."

"Sammy, right?"

"Actually, it's just Sam."

The man reaches out a hand and they shake. "Nice to meet you, Sam, I'm Jim. Me and your ma are friends."

He hasn't ever heard of Jim, but the man seems friendly enough and has no reason to lie about such things. Besides, how else would he have known who Sam was? "What can I do for you, Sam Bucket?"

"I'd like two Whipple-Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight Bars, please." Sam pushes the loose change that he has placed on the counter forward and indicates the ad taped to the glass with his finger. "So long as they're still on sale."

"They are," Jim says, collecting the money and dumping it into the register. He slams the drawer shut and gives Sam a wide grin. "They're in the back. Just got a new shipment in and haven't restocked yet; lemme run back and get you a pair."

Sam nods and watches as Jim disappears through a door behind the counter. Sam taps his fingers against the glass of the counter in time with the ambient music playing over the store's stereo system – some one-hit wonder from a decade ago. The door swings open again, and Jim appears again, carefully considering the two candy bars in his hand. He approaches the counter and hesitates a moment before reaching across and placing them in Sam's eager, waiting hands. Sam excitedly glances over the two candy bars for a moment, trying to be careful not to crush them in his eagerness.

"Sammy."

The brunet looks up, a little surprised and also a little annoyed at the repeated mistake in his name, and Jim slides Sam's change across the counter before lifting a finger and tapping at his temple, winking slyly. He then reaches forward again and points at the uppermost chocolate bar.

"I'd go with that one, if I were you."

Sam grins, that same wide, excited grin, and laughs. "Yeah, sounds good." He doesn't even really think about it…not really. He just pinches the top left corner of the bar's wrapper between his forefinger and thumb and pulls back and there is a flash of gold and very suddenly, Sam's world is rocked on its axis.

o4

The clock tower that stands just to the left of the factory is crumbling and old, but still working, and it chimes out loudly ten times as the big arm slides slowly home, pointing directly upward at the large twelve.

The others stand nearby with their guests, holding their tickets in their hands, so that they are visible and it is easy to identify the group. Everyone stands as close to the gate of the factory's property as they can get - a shivering mass of strangers, all cold and all willing to stand a little closer than would be considered normal in view of the almost unbearably wintry weather.

About ten feet behind the group is the waiting throng of anxious reporters, microphones extended and cameras at the ready. They have already made several attempts to get the Golden Ticket-winners to give interviews, but after a short talk with Ruby Carpenter and her artist father and a failed attempt to get Uriel Gregory to give all the juicy details of his ticket-discovery, the reporters have pretty much fallen into stillness.

Grandpa Bobby, who stands next to a broad, incredibly intimidating man with dark skin and an imposing aura, holds the Golden Ticket for him. Sam grips the bars of the gate with numb, gloveless fingers, just as he has been doing every morning for as long as he can remember. The metal is smooth and freezing and it feels familiar beneath his skin. The cold of the steel is something of an anchor in the tumult of anxiety and nervousness that is welling up inside of Sam, threatening to turn that strange heaviness in his stomach to nausea. The back of his throat is burning. Sam swallows loudly, attempting to soothe his throat and only irritating it further.

A hand lands on his shoulder. Sam pulls his gaze from the factory, where it has been firmly pinned since they arrived, and looks down into Bobby's eyes.

"You okay there, kiddo?" Grandpa Bobby's face is concerned. He squeezes Sam's shoulder once and then shakes him a little. "You look like you're gonna be sick."

Sam shrugs a little and then shakes his head. "No, I'm…I'm fine. Just a little overexcited, I think."

Bobby smiles. "It's understandable, Sam. Even as a kid, you were always askin' questions about this place, wanting to know more and more and more, and now you've finally got a chance to have that endless curiosity of yours quenched."

The tall young man nods, fingers clenching ever tighter around the bars of the gate. He doesn't really know what to say to that, and so instead stays silent. There is a moment when everything is silent except for the shuffle of feet in snow and then there is a creaking noise, sudden and loud as thunder. The gate bars begin to move beneath Sam's fingers. He lets go, but remains frozen in place even as the rest of the group backs away a little to avoid the flurry of snow that flies up as the gates begin their slow swing inward. Sam's pant legs are soaked through with snow, but he doesn't even notice…

…the gates are open.

If it was any other situation, Sam might plead shock, but he isn't really sure just what he is feeling – uncertainty, excitement, confusion. All these things have taken hold of his mind and sort of bled together into one large mass of fuddled emotion and left Sam blank – and waiting.

A strange, ringing noise filled the courtyard of the factory, followed by a short static, and then –

"Please step forward."

The voice is mechanical and inhuman and it's harsh on Sam's ears, but he is the first person through those gates and into that courtyard. His feet move of their own accord, carrying him forward past the steel that has kept him out for so very long, and onto the snow-covered stone that spans the entire width of the courtyard. The other winners follow soon after, but he is nonetheless the first person there, and for a moment his footsteps are the only ones marring the perfect white curtain of snow on the ground. Grandpa Bobby is at his side soon, and then the gates are closing again behind them, shutting them in and keeping the eager reporters from joining the group inside the courtyard.

"Welcome. Mr. Winchester will be with you momentarily."

The grating, robotic voice rings out once more, this time with less static. The final word is followed by a strange clanking noise, similar to a line being disconnected.

"It's freezing," grumbles one of the ladies nearby. She holds a Golden Ticket in a satin-gloved hand and a sumptuous fur coat is draped across her shoulders. Sam thinks he recognizes her as Ruby Carpenter, the rich heiress. "Son of a bitch can't just let us in already?"

Sam's mouth twitches at her tone, but he doesn't say anything, just pulls the dingy collar of his jacket up around his neck and ears, trying to ward off the cold. He isn't sure whether to be amused or insulted on Mr. Winchester's behalf. He settles on somewhere in between.

"He's already ten minutes late," says a loud voice, annoyance evident. The speaker is female, and Sam glances away from the factory and over toward the group. He is surprised to see that the whole party looks rather annoyed; he can't imagine why – they're about to enter the most famous chocolate factory in the country…probably the world. Who knows just what they will see inside? "I don't understand why we had to be here half an hour early if he was just going to keep us waiting."

The woman who is speaking is tall, with shoulder-length blonde hair and a pinched mouth. She is holding hands with a young girl who has the same blonde hair and impatient expression. Sam guesses that this must be Lilith Cast, the eight-year-old who found the fourth Ticket, and, judging by the similarity, her mother.

At Sam's side, Grandpa Bobby is shaking his head. He crosses his arms and shifts from foot to foot, trying to keep his blood circulating and his body warm. "Be patient, ma'am. I'm sure it won't be too much longer."

As though these words of assurance are some kind of catalyst, suddenly the front doors of the factory are swinging open – much more quickly than the rusted-over gates had – and there is a figure silhouetted against the light bursting forth from the factory. Sam is vaguely aware of the sound of flashbulbs bursting and cameras clicking and reporters shouting out questions, but for the most part he isn't aware of anything but that familiar, familiar silhouette and the profile of the man who he has been obsessively curious about ever since he was a child.

The figure is still at first, and then it is moving, and Mr. Dean Winchester is stepping forward into the courtyard, all purple velvet and gray satin and tall top hat and green, green eyes and Sam is staring, understanding…

Sam suddenly knows just what it is that has been eating at his insides for so many years, and he knows just what…who…it is that will make that emptiness finally dissipate.

"Hello." The voice is quiet but it resonates throughout the courtyard, somehow managing to bounce off stone and snow and reach the ears of all. Those reporters are now intently silent, waiting breathlessly for a sound bite. Sam is breathless, too, but for a completely different reason. Mr. Winchester's voice is low and rough, and it gives him shivers that make him think about fingers on skin and lips against lips. He tries not to make noise when he gasps softly, hazel eyes wide and lips trembling slightly. "My name is Dean Winchester." The chocolatier's words are hesitant – almost as though he is unsure of their order or their meaning, as though he has rehearsed a speech that someone else wrote and is now reciting it after much practice. "And this is my chocolate factory." His smile is hesitant, too – cautious, but blinding and bright and beautiful. "Welcome. I hope you'll all join me inside; it's quite cold, and I realize that I may have kept you waiting longer than I intended." His green gaze settles on Miss Carpenter and then slides to Mrs. Cast as he says this.

Mrs. Cast has the decency to blush, but Ruby Carpenter simply pulls her furs closer and steps forward. She smiles blindingly, teeth even and dark eyes flashing. "Well, then, Mr. Winchester. Do lead the way."

Mr. Winchester turns around once more and walks back up the steps of the factory to the large, wooden doors, where he stands and beckons toward the crowd. Eager to escape the snow and the wind and the cold, everyone immediately begins to move toward the welcoming, open doors and that bright, warm interior. Sam, however, feels as though the snow at his feet has melted and congealed into ice and frozen him to the spot. He is momentarily motionless, in awe and, yes, he now knows, perhaps in shock.

Grandpa Bobby pulls at his sleeve though, and the spell is broken and Sam takes a step. The assorted winners and their escorts have lined up before the door and Mr. Winchester. Sam and Grandpa Bobby are at the back of the line.

Ruby Carpenter and her father are first. Mr. Winchester addresses them politely: "Hello. You must be Miss Ruby Carpenter…and guest." He gives Ruby's father a strange, almost fearful look before returning his gaze to the sultry heiress. His green eyes are still blank and wide, but there is a tic in his cheek that was not there before. "Welcome to my factory, Miss Carpenter. I do hope you enjoy chocolate."

Miss Carpenter simpers and smiles and replies, but Sam doesn't hear what she has to say. From what Sam can see, though, she is flirtation incarnate. Whatever she says, Mr. Winchester looks almost intimidated, but he is all politeness, smiling and bowing and ushering the young woman and her father forward through the doors and into the factory. "Please feel free to toss your coats where available," he calls after them before turning to face the remaining guests.

Mrs. Cast and her young daughter Lilith step forward next; the look on Mr. Winchester's face this time is clearly one of dislike, but Mrs. Cast doesn't seem put off at all by the chocolatier's expression. "Hello, Mr. Winchester, it's an honor, truly," she exclaims, reaching forward and laying a gloved hand on his velvet coat. He flinches back almost visibly, mouth twisting, but she is undeterred and pulls her daughter forward by her hand. The young girl looks almost bored, but allows her mother to push her forward. She stares up at Mr. Winchester and Mr. Winchester stares back down at Lilith with a twin look of uncertainty and restlessness, as though this entire ordeal is a waste of his time. He breaks the staring contest and glances up above Lilith's blonde head. For one rousing second, Sam's eyes meet those of the chocolatier and he loses the ability to think, to breathe. The spell is broken when Mrs. Cast chooses to touch him again. Mr. Winchester is positively jarred this time, and he takes a step back and away from the woman and her child until his shoulders are pressed against one of the open doors. The second Mr. Winchester's gaze falters, Sam is unsure their eyes ever met in the first place. "This is my daughter Lilith; she's the one that found your lovely Golden Ticket. We're absolutely thrilled to be here, Mr. Winchester, just thrilled!"

Mr. Winchester nods at the woman, smiling forcedly and then herds Mrs. Cast and her uninterested daughter forward after the Carpenters. The next person in line steps forward quickly. A strange, dark smile graces his features and makes his imposing figure that much more imposing. "Hello, Mr. Winchester; my name is Uriel Gregory, from Seattle."

The dark-skinned man makes no effort to shake Mr. Winchester's hand and he looks almost grateful for this. "I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Gregory. Welcome to my chocolate factory. I hear you are quite the enthusiast." Mr. Gregory enters the factory without much encouragement and without accompaniment. He has come guestless, it seems.

Meg Masters, the journalism student, is just ahead of Sam and Grandpa Bobby. She steps forward with an intent gleam in her eye. A young woman at her side has a similar look in her eyes. They both have short blonde hair and brown eyes and are about the same height. Sam guesses that they are sisters.

"Great to meet you, Mr. Winchester," Miss Masters greets, raising her hand in an awkward sort of wave. "Just great. Name's Meg Masters. This is my little sister."

Mr. Winchester nods at them both, but doesn't seem to be paying much attention. He seems almost impatient now, the restlessness that had become apparent when he was greeting the Casts now nearly a tangible presence in his expression. His eyes are looking through Meg Masters - past her. Sam feels ghostly fingers against the base of his spine when he realizes that those green eyes are looking at him…again. He hadn't imagined it before. Meg Masters is quick to realize that the chocolatier's attention isn't exactly focused on her and her eyes narrow before her head turns slightly and she begins to follow his line of sight. But then Mr. Winchester is reaching out and tapping her on the shoulder. "Pleased to meet you, Misses Masters; this way, if you please." And he beckons them forward and they go.

Grandpa Bobby is nearly jumping up and down in excitement at Sam's side, but Sam doesn't think that his grandfather could be nearly as excited as he is. The burning at the back of his throat has returned and he swallows once, twice, trying to soothe it, trying to force himself into calmness. What if I say something stupid? he wonders, stepping up and into the place where Meg Masters was just seconds prior. What if…if…

His fears disappear. He is drowning in green eyes.

"Mr. Robert Bucket." Mr. Winchester's voice is kind and friendly, lacking any of the nervousness or disinterestedness of his earlier greetings.

Grandpa Bobby is grinning and wiping his hands against his trousers as he is wont to do when he is nervous. He begins chattering away – "Mr. Winchester, sir, it's been at least ten years since we last saw each other, sir, so I don't quite expect you to remember, but-"

Mr. Winchester stops Grandpa's Bobby's nervous chatter with one raised, glove-encased hand. His eyes (are framed in thick, black lashes…are the most nameless shade of green that Sam has ever encountered) never leave Sam's. "Of course I remember you, Mr. Bucket. You worked in my factory once."

For the first time in Sam's memory, Bobby blushes. Pleased and embarrassed, he lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck and ducks his head, rushing forward ahead of his grandson into the factory in order to escape.

The silence is awkward and short, but it feels monumental.

"Hello, Sam Bucket."

His voice is still rough and quiet and reverberating, but there is something else there now, something that wasn't there before. It is something deep and subtle and meant for Sam and it turns those light, ghostly touches against his spine into caresses. He shudders.

"H…hello." Sam's voice cracks and his face reddens. It's not from the cold.

"Welcome to my factory." It's the same greeting he has given to all the others, but there is sincerity beneath the words this time that changes the burning at the back of his throat to a tingling. He feels almost near tears with relief, with gratefulness, with appreciation, with yearning, with longing, with…

"Thank you. I'm very…very…" Sam does not have the words. He simply looks at Mr. Winchester, studying the other man's face (full, pink mouth that is somehow still masculine…golden-bronze skin with a smattering of freckles…straight, Grecian nose…dark blond hair, short sideburns, and dark blonde slashes of eyebrows above piercing green eyes…) and pleading with his eyes for him to understand his wordlessness.

"I know." Mr. Winchester's voice is even quieter this time, throaty and full of a heavy, dark, scary emotion that causes a twisting of something just as dark at the bottom of Sam's stomach. It makes Sam think of things he really shouldn't – entwined legs and sweaty skin and flushed faces. There is a rush of blood to his groin and he is glad for the first time that his jacket is too big for him. "I…I know, Sam." Sam immediately is in love with the way that Mr. Winchester says his name. He speaks it as though he hasn't just met him. He speaks it as though he has known about him for years and has been waiting and waiting and waiting for this one chance to finally…finally say the word aloud. Sam thinks back on all the days that he has stood before the gate and looked up at the windows of the factory, looking for a shadow, for a profile, for a face. He wonders, for the first time…was there ever anyone looking back?

TO BE CONTINUED.


	3. o5 & o6

**Title**: Delicious  
**Author**: conclusivelead.  
**Pairing: **Dean/Sam  
**Burton Movie**: Charlie & the Chocolate Factory.  
**Rating**: R – NC-17.  
**Category**: Angst, drama, darkfic, romance  
**Word Count**: 3,177.  
**Spoilers**: None; AU.  
**Summary**: "There is a smear of dark on the back of his hand and Sam wants nothing more than to lean forward and place his lips against that bronze and taste the bitter of chocolate and the sweet of skin."  
**Warnings**: AU, chocolate!Kink, introspection, vagueness, cursing, violence, death, frotting, UST, campiness  
**Notes**: To start with, this is NOT posted in the Crossover section of this site, because there are no actual characters from C&tCF in this story. In this fic, the SPN characters have simply been thrust into the roles of C&tCF characters. So this is more along the lines of a SPN AU than an actual crossover. I hope you will indulge my reasoning.

I'm totally updating on time this week! Sorry it's so late at night, but I had a long day. I hope this chapter is as well-recieved as the last two. Thanks to everyone who is still reading!

**Disclaimer**: Supernatural is the property of Kripke and the CW network. I do not own Supernatural and there is no profit being made from this fanfiction. I also own neither Charlie and the Chocolate Factory or Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

**DELICIOUS 3/5**  
A SPN/Charlie & the Chocolate Factory Crossover…of Sorts

o5

He already knows where he is going to take the group first. He has been planning it for months, ever since this idea began formulating inside his head. He leads them away from the pile of coats on the floor to the farthest door and pulls out his key ring, struggling to remain calm, struggling to play this entire farce off at face value, struggling not to turn back around and pull Sam Bucket away from the rest of the group and do to him all those things he saw running through the tall young man's eyes.

The key slides in and the tumblers turn easily. He grips the knob and turns it, pushing the doors open wide to the amazed gasps of his awaiting 'guests'. He is no longer quite so impressed by the sugar-spun grass and the licorice flowers and the chocolate river, but he realizes the effect it must be having on those who have never seen the room before. He leads them forward on the marshmallow path, his dark boots making no noise against the soft ground.

"This is a very important room," he announces, gesturing with a grand sweep of a white-gloved hand. There is a shocked awe present in the faces of all those following behind him. Miss Carpenter is gripping her father's arm, disbelief filling her eyes, and he feels a mixture of pride and self-satisfied smugness in squashing her composed air. In fact, there seems to be a common sense of disbelief in every person, save for Robert and Sam Bucket, who stand near the rear of the group. Of course, Robert Bucket has been here before and he seems mostly ecstatic to be seeing it all again, and Sam has probably been hearing stories about it since he was a child from his grandfather. He takes a moment to study Sam's expression most especially, delighting in the wide eyes and parted lips. The hair at the back of his neck prickles and he shivers despite the room's humidity. The tall teenager's arms hang limply at his sides, fingers curled slackly into palms and shoulders sagging. The too-big overcoat hangs open to reveal a tan-and-brown plaid shirt buttoned loosely over old, holey cargo pants. Even so, he's not sure he's ever seen anything more…delicious in his entire life. Even as he realize he is staring, hazel eyes catch his own and electricity sparks. He knows that this façade…this joke, really…this game that he is playing, inviting these people to the factory…eventually his real motives for sending out those Golden Tickets are going to be uncovered, and if hazel eyes keep catching green, he and Sam won't get to have half the fun they should.

"It's beautiful," Sam is saying.

His eyebrows lift, and he forces himself act as though he hasn't heard as Robert Bucket turns to grin at his grandson.

"What?" he asks, turning and glancing back as though he hasn't been staring at Sam the entire time. "Oh, yeah, it's very beautiful."

_Soon._

"Please," he says, "please be careful and don't get too close to the river, as it is very easy to fall in, and I'm not much of a swimmer."

He walks them all along the river, giving random facts and answering questions – mostly from Mr. Uriel Gregory, who seems to be completely in awe of the chocolate waterfall. The dark man's eyes are glued the constant gush of melted chocolate and he shoots off endless questions, a new one coming as soon as the last one has been answered.

"What temperature does the chocolate have to be kept at in order for the river to stay-?"

"Chocolate melts at between 110° and 120°, so it's necessary to keep the chocolate heated to at least 115° F, just to be safe," he answers before Mr. Gregory is able to even complete his sentence. He continues to lead the trek alongside the river, using his polished walking stick to push aside hanging licorice branches from nearby trees.

"I don't understand," Meg Masters says from somewhere behind him. "What's the point of having a chocolate waterfall? It's completely ridiculous."

He ignores her, cocking his head slightly to the side and placing his left hand on the top of his hat in order to keep in safely on his head. "What was that, Miss? You really shouldn't mumble, I'm afraid I didn't catch that."

"Mr. Winchester, I've another question for you," says Mr. Gregory, pushing past Miss Masters, who gasps with outrage but doesn't say anything, to come up beside him. "Where does the river go exactly?"

"Ah! A wonderful question, Mr. Gregory." He stops in place and spins about, eggplant-colored tailcoats flaring dramatically. He gives the group an awkward smile and points up at the ceiling of the room with his forefinger. There is a strange system of clear pipes there. "Every hour or so, those pipes will descend and suck up several gallons of melted chocolate. Each pipe has an assigned destination. The pipe carries the melted chocolate away to its destination so quickly that the chocolate arrives in its assigned place before it has the chance to solidify."

Mr. Gregory looks absolutely fascinated.

"And when is the next pipe scheduled to descend?" he asks, staring up at the ceiling.

Mr. Winchester shrugs one velvet-clad shoulder nonchalantly. "I've no idea. I really don't keep track of these things, you know."

The other man looks more than slightly disappointed, but if the chocolatier notices it, he says nothing and instead smiles that same awkward, out-of-place smile at the rest of his guests, green eyes impatient and manner restless and thoughts straying. "Shall we move on?"

They do move on, away toward the far end of the river, where a large, colorful boat awaits them.

No one notices that Mr. Uriel Gregory stays behind, or that he leans in to inspect the chocolate river a little more closely for himself despite Mr. Winchester's warning.

No one notices that the delicate, fragile sugar-spun grass lining the riverside begins to crumble away and then gives beneath his bulky, bent frame.

No one notices him fall in.

No one notices that Mr. Uriel Gregory can't swim.

o6

The boat is just large enough for their group and is colorfully painted and floats motionlessly atop the melted chocolate. Sam isn't sure how it's powered at first, but then he sees four oars resting in square notches along the wood of each side – two at the very front of the boat and two at the rear. Four benches rest horizontally in the center and are wide enough to seat perhaps three people on each. Mr. Carpenter waits for no invitation and instead helps his daughter onto the boat immediately, mindful of her uncomfortable-looking high-heeled shoes and the two take their seats in the very middle of the boat, on one of the benches without oars. Sam isn't surprised. He turns to see Grandpa Bobby giving him the exact same sort of look that he is about to give him and they both chuckle softly.

"Yes, yes, on you go," says Mr. Winchester, and Sam is sure he hears an amused note in the chocolatier's throaty tone, and…oh, there's that expected shiver of pleasure. He closes his eyes for a moment, reveling in it, before he is being bumped into by Miss Masters and her sister as they make their way onto the boat. "Don't give mind to the oars, they are simply for decoration. The boat has been motor-powered for quite some months, now." Upon hearing this, the sisters somehow maneuver around the Carpenters to sit at the bow of the boat. Sam's mouth twists into a grin.

Mrs. Cast takes her young daughter into her arms and allows Grandpa Bobby to assist her into the boat. She sits on the left side of the boat and then places her daughter in the middle. Almost as an afterthought, she turns to Sam's grandfather and asks, "Sir, I don't suppose you'd mind sitting on the other side of Lilith just to be safe, would you?"

Bobby is a gentleman and he loves children. He agrees kindly, but the little girl does not look pleased. "But Mommy, I wanted to sit on the outside," she whines. Mrs. Cast ignores her, and Grandpa Bobby takes his seat, trying his best to appease the little girl by patting her in between her blonde pigtails. She frowns at him and Sam feels badly for his grandfather. He begins to offer to change places with him, but then there is a light touch on his shoulder –

"Mr. Bucket, if you will…"

- and Sam realizes just who he will be sitting next to at the very back of the boat. Grandpa Bobby will just have to suffer. Mr. Winchester is standing just beside him. He is close enough that same can see the light dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose and smell the strange, sweet scent of his cologne. The chocolatier's left hand rests lightly on Sam's shoulder, but those green eyes are dark, smoldering, promising. Sam is vaguely aware of Ruby Carpenter striking up inane conversation with Meg Master's sister and of Lilith Cast complaining about something or other as Mr. Winchester moves ever-so-slightly closer.

He can smell the sweet on the shorter man's breath.

"Get on the boat, Sammy."

It's there again, that heaviness that makes Sam's throat close up and his cheeks go hot. He forgets about the people in the boat, he forgets about the room made of candy. He wants to lean forward and press his face into Mr. Winchester's neck and inhale, breathe in the smell of sugar and sweat and cologne. He wants to drag his tongue along the pulse point of the other man's throat, he wants to slide his hands up the other man's legs, he wants to do things that he shouldn't want to do at all. There is an unspoken familiarity in that nickname – _Sammy_. Sam doesn't understand how there is so much between them and yet nothing between them. He doesn't understand how he knows what is to come and yet how he feels so completely lost.

Regardless, he inhales deeply once more before he steps away slowly, and settles himself onto the bench at the back of that boat, waiting for Mr. Winchester to join him and for those tacit promises to come to pass. Time no longer stands still, and the other man does join him, settling down with a surprising sort of grace. The tails of the man's purple coat swish down behind him, trailing down to the floor of the boat and reminding Sam of Lilith's pigtails.

Sam struggles to find a comfortable position, one where his long legs are not completely bent in half, but fails. He settles for sliding back to the very back of the bench seat and then placing the bottoms of his feet under the bench. His legs are cramped and his knees are painfully pressed against the back of the Casts' bench, but it is his only solution. He feels clumsy, all long limbs and awkward height, but Mr. Winchester is still looking at him with that burning in his gaze.

He watches as the formally-dressed man leans over and fiddles with a set of controls situated on the back of the bench ahead of them that Sam has not previously seen. Mr. Winchester presses a series of buttons, pulls a lever, and then suddenly the boat is moving forward – slowly at first, and then a bit more quickly, until they are gliding along the chocolate river at a comfortable pace. There is a strange box attached to Mr. Winchester's side of the bench. He opens it and withdraws a purple ladle the same shade as his jacket. Sam observes as the white glove is stripped from his left hand quickly before the man dips the ladle into the melted chocolate on the over side of the boat and turns back toward Sam. When he speaks, his tone is light, conversational. It doesn't match the burning in his bright green eyes.

"Here, try some of this. It'll do you good."

There is a smear of dark on the back of his hand and Sam wants nothing more than to lean forward and place his lips against that bronze and taste the bitter of chocolate and the sweet of skin. He squelches the overwhelming desire and instead accepts the ladle, bringing the brim of it to his lips and sipping the warm, melted chocolate. It is sweet on his tongue, and it slides down his throat smoothly. Mr. Winchester is watching him, half-lidded, lips parted, breath coming silent but shallow when suddenly Lilith says from just ahead of them, "Mommy, what happened to the black man?".

Seven words are all it takes to send the boat into a curious frenzy. Where **is** Mr. Gregory? Have they left him behind? Why haven't they noticed until just now?

"Settle down," says Mr. Winchester smoothly, tugging his glove back onto his hand, voice calm even as the boat begins to rock back and forth a bit. "I'll send word to my workers that we have a guest missing. In the meantime, let's just continue with the tour, shall we?"

It takes little convincing. Everyone here is strangers, really, and Mr. Gregory seems to know how to take care of himself. Just as everyone begins to calm down again and Mr. Winchester is speaking into a handheld radio, the boat glides into a tunnel, and the party is plunged into near-darkness. Lilith screams and begins to cry. "Mommy, I'm scared!" she whines. Sam's brow furrows, but the depth of the darkness slowly shallows and his eyes adjust and he realizes they are simply in a series of tunnels. The chocolate river continues to flow past a series of doors, each differently labeled: _Coffee Cream, Candy-coated Pencils for Sucking_, _Fizzy Lifting Drinks_.

"Pay attention, everyone, we're passing some very important rooms," Mr. Winchester says. He sounds bored; his eyes are on Sam again. Sam is for the first time embarrassed by the scrutiny of that unwavering stare and instead tries to concentrate on the variety of doors on either side.

_Jelly Bean Room._

_Cows that Give Chocolate Milk._

_Hot Ice Creams for Cold Days._

There is a strange whirring sound just beneath Sam's feet that sends vibrations up through the soles of his shoes. The boat comes to a surprisingly fast halt. "Here we are - our next stop." Mr. Winchester's voice is still bored and he is still looking at Sam, but Sam is reading the printed letters on the large door before them with interest and does not notice this time:

_Inventing Room._

They disembark quickly and it seems like one moment they're on the boat and the next they're inside.

The room is huge, with impossibly tall, vaulted ceilings that reach higher than Sam's eye can see and tables, dozens and dozens and wide, chrome tables that hold beakers and bottles full of strangely colored liquids and bubbling chocolate. Strange machines stand here and there, one with glass pipes funneling chocolate from this tank to that tank and another with ovens that seem to making marshmallow pies that are shaped like birds and rabbits and other, more ambiguous things.

"Now this is the most important room in the entire factory," says Mr. Winchester in his low but reverberant voice from where he stands near the strange machine with glass pipes that Sam noticed earlier. "Feel free to look around. Enjoy yourselves, but please don't touch anything." He is polite, much as he was when he first greeted everyone earlier at the gates, but the constant restlessness is still present, and he does not dwell on giving an exuberant explanation of any of the machines, deciding instead to wait for questions. They come quickly enough. Miss Carpenter points curiously at a large tank of blue liquid, the bottom of which is littered with strange, red candies that look somewhat like overlarge gumdrops.

"Mr. Winchester, do tell. What are these?"

The chocolatier approaches the tank and rests a hand on its rim. "Let me show you." After removing his gloves, he retrieves a long-handled device from a porcelain urn at the tank's side and uses it to grab a candy from the bottom of the tank. Holding the red candy between his thumb and forefinger, he says, "**This** is an Everlasting Gobstopper." The corner of the man's mouth upturns ever-so-slightly and his gaze slide to Sam as he adds, "You can suck on it all year and it will never get any smaller." His tongue darts out to wet his lips and then he looks away, holding the Gobstopper out to Mrs. Cast. "Here, a gift. But be careful, it's still in the experimental stage."

Sam's throat constricts and he turns away to study the strange machines and bubbling experiments, trying to force the flush from his cheeks. "Look at this, Sam," Grandpa Bobby says from his side, pointing at a beaker filled with an odd vermillion liquid. The teenage boy nods, pretending to be interested.

"Alright, everyone, let's move on," Mr. Winchester announces. He begins to move away from the huge steel tank filled with the blue liquid and the Everlasting Gobstoppers. Lilith's mother inspects her gift with a cursory glance before passing the candy into her daughter's small hand with a quick smile.

"Mommy, can I eat it now?" Lilith asks, already raising the candy to her mouth.

Mrs. Cast gives her daughter a terse nod, already stepping away with the intention of asking Mr. Winchester a question about a machine that catches her eye. "Of course, dear, go right ahead. Now, I'll be just ahead. Mind you remember what Mr. Winchester said and don't touch anything, sweetie." She leaves her daughter by the Everlasting Gobstopper tank. Lilith watches her mother go with unconcerned blue eyes, the candy pinched between two fingers and lips open around it. An opaque, silvery mist begins falling from a nearby table's invention and causes Lilith's eyes to sting. She blinks rapidly and takes a few steps after her mother, shoving the Everlasting Gobstopper completely into her mouth and taking a few good sucks at it. The mist thickens, rising up about Lilith's face and getting into her eyes. She coughs around the Gobstopper, eyes squinting and nose running. Growing panicked, she tries to speak, but the candy is in her way and when she opens her mouth, mist enters her parted lips and thickens her saliva. She coughs again; the mist is too thick now. She cannot see.

She runs into something (a table, a machine?) and falls down, jarred. The Gobstopper pushes down the back of her tongue and slides down her throat until it can't slide any further. She can't breathe, she can't move, and her mother is too far away to hear her struggle beneath the mist.

True to Mr. Winchester's word, the Everlasting Gobstopper never shrinks.

TO BE CONTINUED.


	4. o7 & o8

**Title**: Delicious  
**Author**: conclusivelead.  
**Pairing: **Dean/Sam  
**Burton Movie**: Charlie & the Chocolate Factory.  
**Rating**: R – NC-17.  
**Category**: Angst, drama, darkfic, romance  
**Word Count**: 3,974.  
**Spoilers**: None; AU.  
**Summary**: "There is a smear of dark on the back of his hand and Sam wants nothing more than to lean forward and place his lips against that bronze and taste the bitter of chocolate and the sweet of skin."  
**Warnings**: AU, chocolate!Kink, introspection, vagueness, cursing, violence, death, frotting, UST, campiness  
**Notes**: To start with, this is NOT posted in the Crossover section of this site, because there are no actual characters from C&tCF in this story. In this fic, the SPN characters have simply been thrust into the roles of C&tCF characters. So this is more along the lines of a SPN AU than an actual crossover. I hope you will indulge my reasoning.

There was a lot more editing involved in this chapter, because it the sexual tension starts to come to a head and manifest itself. Enjoy! :D

**Disclaimer**: Supernatural is the property of Kripke and the CW network. I do not own Supernatural and there is no profit being made from this fanfiction. I also own neither Charlie and the Chocolate Factory or Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

**DELICIOUS 4/5**  
A SPN/Charlie & the Chocolate Factory Crossover…of Sorts

o7

"That's all the time we have for this room, I'm afraid." Mr. Winchester leads the group to a row of doors that Sam never would have noticed otherwise. There are three of them, and are all the same shades of chrome, barely noticeable against the sheen of the wall. The chocolatier stops before the middle door and withdraws his key ring again, searching for the correct key just as Mrs. Cast gives a startled gasp. Her fingers clutch at the silver cross hanging from her throat.

"But where's Lilith?"

Mr. Winchester pauses in his search for the correct key, fingers stilling slowly before he glances over his shoulder. Impatience flashes in his eyes before his face settles back into composure. "Is something wrong, Mrs. Cast?" It's obvious to Sam that he heard her perfectly clearly the first time, but Mr. Winchester's restlessness seems to be growing with each passing moment, and the hot stares he pins on Sam are growing in frequency. He wonders briefly whether Mr. Winchester will last until the end of the tour before he acts on those unspoken promises.

Sam wonders if he should care. There is an acidic taste at the back of his throat that burns his tongue and slips down into his stomach, poisoning his insides – fear. There is such a strong sense foreboding. There is something wrong going on here, something is terribly…wrong in this place, but Sam can't bring himself to want to care. He disregards the fear grabs onto that ever-present lust and rides it, allows it to drive him on past all the apprehension.

He doesn't care.

"I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Winchester," says Mrs. Cast, apparently equally as embarrassed as she is worried. She twists, twists, twists the silver cross on its silver chain, perfectly manicured fingers clenched tight around the small pendant. Her knuckles are white. "It seems as though Lilith has managed to get away from me."

Sam temporarily thinks that Mr. Winchester's impatience is going to return, but the chocolatier is all silky smile and cool self possession. "Quite all right, Mrs. Cast, quite all right," he soothes, proceeding to fumble through his keys again, searching again. He turns from the middle door to the door on the right and everyone in the group watches as he finally settles upon what appears to be the correct key. He singles it out and slides it into the lock of the door. Mr. Winchester only cracks it open enough so that he can pop his head inside. Sam watches curiously as the man leans inside the other room for a few moments, the doorknob held tight in his hand so that no one else can see what is on the other side of the chrome door. The light shining from the other room casts a strange glow on the collar of Mr. Winchester's velvet jacket and illuminates the golden-bronze of the back of his neck. Sam stares at the skin there hungrily.

After a moment, the shorter man's face emerges once more and he smiles at Mrs. Cast, gesturing her forward. "Come with me, madam," he says, opening the door a little wider to admit Mrs. Cast's slightly bulkier form. "My workers are going to help you locate your daughter."

Grandpa Bobby and Sam watch as Mr. Winchester urges Mrs. Cast into the room and then holds up his forefinger quickly to the remainder of their tour group, smiling, pleading for their patience, although his eyes show that he has none himself. He follows Mrs. Cast into the room, the door closing softly but surely behind him. Sam is sure that it is again locked.

"Oh, this is absolutely ridiculous," snaps a man's voice. Sam is surprised to see Mr. Carpenter running a handkerchief across his forehead, mopping up the nervous sweat there. "This blasted tour is never going to end if we keep losing track of guests. Sooner or later Mr. Winchester will find a way to get rid of every last one of us, just see if he doesn't."

Meg Master's sister gives him a confused look, glancing back and forth between the elegant but frustrated man and the door behind which their guide has just disappeared.

"I don't understand," she says, clearly bewildered.

He gives her an annoyed look, and for the first time Sam realizes that Mr. Carpenter probably does not want to be here at all. He glances at the man's daughter, who has produced a nail file from somewhere and is currently working at maintaining her perfect manicure. The sly, scheming look she was wearing at the beginning of the tour has completely disappeared and now boredom rules her features. _Oh, of course_, Sam thinks, feeling rather dull for not realizing sooner. Grandpa Bobby arches a brow at him and he shrugs. He'll never understand rich people and their scheming, gold-digging ways. Not ever.

"What's to understand?" replies Mr. Carpenter coldly, picking invisible lint from his flawlessly pressed slate-colored suit. "It's obvious to anyone with eyes that Mr. Winchester doesn't even want us here. This entire thing is one huge publicity stunt, of course, but he's not even trying to be civil – not really. He's trying his best to make this entire tour go as quickly as possible. He wants it over and done with and he wants us out of his chocolate factory."

Meg Masters rolls her eyes even as her little sister frowns and says quietly, "Surely that's not entirely true…"

"Of course it is, kiddo," Meg assures, gripping her sister's shoulder. Her mouth is twisted slightly, as though she is trying to remain serious and not laugh at her sibling's lack of eagerness to see the worst in their host. "The guy's pretty much an antisocial asshole."

Sam glares.

"Succinctly said, my dear," drawls Mr. Carpenter.

Grandpa Bobby's face is slowly turning a rather discomforting shade of plum; Sam is reminded of Mr. Winchester's top hat. "Hey, now," his grandfather says, voice right with restrained anger. "Whatever you may think of this man, he **is** our host, and we are guests in this place. We have no right to be speaking badly of him."

Sam concurs with a resolute nod. He is afraid that if he opens his mouth to speak, all that will emerge is a string of curses. The tension in the room is thick as the other four guests turn to stare at Sam and his grandfather. The tall teenager is sure that an argument is about to break out, but then –

"Alright, now that Mrs. Cast is taken care of… did I miss something?"

- Mr. Winchester standing before them, key ring at his waist and hands crossed before him over the top of his walking stick. There is amusement in his eyes. Sam has a feeling that he knows exactly what has just transpired, and feels something akin to alarm for the first time in Mr. Winchester's presence. How is it that this man knows absolutely everything about…everything? There are those fingers, those insistent fingers at his spine, drifting down his skin as the green-eyed man unabashedly dragged his gaze from Sam's legs to his face. The corners of his full lips are upturned again. Sam is blushing.

"Oh, no, nothing at all," Mr. Carpenter is saying, and Sam looks over to see the artist avoiding looking at the chocolatier.

"Nope, nothin'," assures Grandpa Bobby, slinging an arm up around Sam's shoulders awkwardly. "We're all real excited to be movin' on if you've got things settled with Mrs. Cast, sir."

Mr. Winchester nods at Grandpa Bobby once, his smile genuine when his gaze is on Sam's grandfather. His façade returns as soon as he looks away. Sam feels a strange rush of affection for both Bobby and for the strange man he has really only just met. He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous habit. "Yes, Mrs. Cast is being assisted in her search for her daughter by a few of my more trusted workers," he says, voice low but as always, everyone hears him quite easily. "Once they find little Lilith they've been told to escort them both to the gates of the factory."

"But then won't they miss out on the rest of the tour?" asks Ruby Carpenter, her voice slightly (_and a little surprisingly_, thinks Sam) accusatory. Her eyes are narrowed at Mr. Winchester.

Mr. Winchester casts her a disconcerting look. "Frankly, if Mrs. Cast and her daughter wanted to experience the rest of the tour, then little Lilith should have kept better track of us." His tone is sharp, but his features are relaxed, a laid-back, almost dreamy smile on his face. "The same could be said, I think, of Mr. Gregory."

Sam starts. He has completely forgotten about Mr. Gregory. He takes a quick look around, and from the look on everyone else's faces, so have they.

"Anyway, onward and upward, as they say," continues Mr. Winchester, reaching for the handle of the middle door. He twists the knob and the door opens easily. The room beyond it is dark, but he enters anyway, shrugging a shoulder as he does so to indicate that they follow. As Sam passes through the doorway into the lightless room, he vaguely wonders why Mr. Winchester hadn't searched for a key to unlock it the second time round.

The thought is immediately dispatched when the lights come on.

"Wow," says Meg Masters.

_My sentiments exactly_. Sam's jaw drops as he examines his surroundings.

As wide as the last room is, this room is as tall. The ceiling goes on for what looks like miles. The room is relatively small, width-wise. It is a circular room, and is perhaps the size of a basketball court. The walls are completely covered with shelves which are completely lined with different kinds of nuts. Between the shelves, Sam can just barely discern a strange, grand, swirling paintjob that extends from the too-high ceiling to the very center of the floor, in the middle of which there is a strangely-placed hole that is maybe six-by-six feet wide. Glancing back at the door through which he has just journeyed, Sam sees a sign:

_Nut Room_.

"This is the Nut Room," says Mr. Winchester, as though on cue. He waves with his walking stick as he speaks, pointing as various types of nuts and explaining which nut goes into which candy bar. Sam kind of zones out; the bizarre swirling paint is throwing off his equilibrium and he feels almost nauseous. He closes his eyes momentarily, trying to bid the uneasiness in his stomach to fade. After a few seconds it does, and when he opens his eyes again, all is well.

"-is this strange hole, Mr. Winchester?" Ruby Carpenter is asking, leaning conspicuously over the edge of the oddly-placed hole in the ground. Her furs slink forward off her shoulders and she just barely catches them before they fall into the depths of the floor.

"Careful, Miss Carpenter, wouldn't want you falling in there," Mr. Winchester warns in monotone, still standing near the door with Grandpa Bobby and Sam. Meg Masters and her sister are near the shelving, perusing the collection of tropical nuts and are safely away from the strange hole, but Mr. Carpenter has joined his daughter in the center of the room. "That's the garbage chute and incinerator, where we dump all the rotting nuts. Wouldn't want to ruin your pretty wrap."

Ruby sniffs in distaste and backs away a little, but her father is closer to her than she realized and the two bump into each other. Ruby slips on the slick, sloped tile and her furs begin to creep from her shoulders again. The heiress gasps and grabs for them, but slips again, this time falling to her knees, and then forward, losing her stability.

"Ruby!" her father cries, reaching out and clamping his fingers around her wrist. He yanks back on his slim daughter's form, but the momentum of her fall pulls him forward as well.

Sam watches this entire event unfold with horrified eyes and starts forward to try and help them, but there is an iron hand on his shoulder, holding him back. His head snaps back, glaring into firm green eyes. "No, Sammy. You'll just fall, too." There is a calmness in Mr. Winchester's voice as he says this that near-repulses him. He speaks of allowing these two to possibly fall to their deaths with an apathy that cannot possibly be healthy, cannot possibly be **human**. For the first time since Sam realized that it was even there, at the rear of his perception, the unease is prickly-sharp, demanding his attention. His common sense is screaming at him to think – _think_. Was he safe here?

Sam jerks his wrist away and rushes forward anyway. There is a shout at his back, rough and enraged, and it's not from Grandpa Bobby, who moved faster than he did and is trying to snatch Ruby out of midair. Sam grabs for the back of Mr. Carpenter's collar, but his fingers only brush the fabric as the older man falls forward after his daughter, and they both disappear from sight into the darkness of the chute.

Ruby's scream echoes in Sam's ears.

"Dammit," swears Bobby quietly, panting for breath.

"Oh my God," whispers Meg's sister, eyes wide and hands trembling. "Holy…holy **shit.**"

Sam stares into the darkness of the hole, shocked at the speed at which the Carpenters have disappeared. Only moments ago, they were standing just where he is standing, and now they are gone. He almost doesn't feel it when a hand wrenches him back from the slanting floor of the chute. He is whipped around and hands situate themselves on his shoulders. Gloved fingers dig into his skin, even through the flannel of his shirt and the thin material of his overcoat. Olive eyes pierce his own hazel depths, and he immediately and inexplicably feels very, very guilty. "Just what the fuck was that, Sammy? Hm? What. The. **Fuck**. Was. That?"

It scares Sam just how calm Mr. Winchester's tone is - how low, how rough his voice is, scares him more than any of the screaming that his mother has ever, ever done. In fact, it terrifies him. He swallows loudly, and his lips tremble. The fingers on his shoulders are bruising and he is truly, truly afraid. He sees a raged pain deep in those green eyes that sends apprehension shuddering through him.

"Mr. Winchester, sir, what do we do?" Grandpa Bobby saves him.

All the rage is masked in an instant. Mr. Winchester's hands drop and he turns away from Sam, eyes full of something, though, that doesn't allow him to relax for even an instant. "I'm going to radio for help. It's Tuesday; likely that the incinerators aren't on today." Meg's sister gives a willowy sob at these words and Sam exhales unsteadily, thoroughly dazed. "As it is, there's nothing we can do by just standing here. We might as well move on with the tour. Only a few more stops; might as well finish it off." The cloaked impatience is no longer cloaked. Mr. Winchester is now visibly agitated, edgy. His eyes keep sliding almost involuntarily back to Sam's shaken form.

Sam tries to keep his gaze directed toward the floor, unready to meet that intense green stare again so soon.

Meg Masters looks more than a little dubious at this suggestion, but Sam steps forward and nods, trying to look more convinced than he felt. Meg's sister looks like she's about to pass out, and he feels sorry for her. "Yeah, let's keep going. I'm sure they're going to be perfectly fine."

Meg's little sister looks at him and sniffles, wiping her eyes. "D-d'you really think so?" she hiccups.

Sam smiles kindly, nodding. "Of course."

Meg lifts a brow at him, obviously full of silent doubts, but says nothing, refusing, apparently, to shatter her little sister's illusions.

Sam is such a liar.

o8

Mr. Winchester leads them out of the Nut Room through another door, adjacent to the one that they entered through. Strangely enough, this new door just leads to a hall. At the very end of this hall is the entrance to an elevator that is made of what looks like, to Sam's eye, glass. He stares, bewildered, and then almost laughs at himself. _I've been in a room made completely of candy, ridden in a boat on a chocolate river, and had eye-sex with the most famous chocolatier in the world today_, he thinks, shaking his head and grinning despite himself and the rather grim turn of events. _Sam Bucket, you are an idiot._

Mr. Winchester presses the button with an upward-pointing arrow and the elevator immediately lets out a 'ding' before the doors slide open to reveal a large, completely transparent elevator. Buttons cover the walls of the elevator, and the ceiling, too, Sam sees as he gets on. Everything is made of sturdy, hard glass, and intricately carved. It seems like it should be cluttered, messy, but instead it is beautiful and sleek and modern. Everyone fits inside the elevator easily, with much room to spare. Meg and her sister gravitate to one corner, where the journalism major does her best to keep her younger sibling from bursting into hysterics. As the elevator begins its journey upwards, Bobby goes to the back wall and watches with fascination as they pass different floors and levels, different rooms where different kinds of candy are made. Everyone once and a while, he sighs a little nostalgically, as though he's spotted something he remembers from long ago.

Sam doesn't really have time to assess the situation before he is being pushed into the corner opposite on the diagonal from where the Masters sisters are and there are gloved hands running themselves up and down his sides, fingering the flannel of his shirt and playfully brushing over the skin just beneath. He gasps aloud before one of the hands clamps down over his mouth. Lips are at his ear, those full, pink lips that he has been staring at for the past three hours, those full, pink lips that he has been imagining every day since he was a child, and those full, pink lips are whispering things, hot breath humid on the susceptible skin of his neck.

"Sam, Sam, Sam…" Mr. Winchester is whispering, over and over again, lips hovering just above the pulsing tendon Sam's neck. Sam's breath is caught in his throat and he wants to lean forward and force those lips to touch, to follow through. He needs skin-to-skin, mouth-to-mouth, cock-to-cock. "Sam…"

The candy-maker's fingers maneuver their way beneath the rounded flap of the hem of Sam's shirt and dance along the waistband of his pants, the soft cloth of those fucking impossible gloves creating unbearable friction where they slide against the overtly sensitive skin of Sam's stomach. The younger man groans against the palm of Mr. Winchester's hand and he bucks his hips. The chocolatier grins, displaying slightly pointed canines and tucks his knee between Sam's thighs. Sam bites his bottom lip, his entire body tense with desire. He knees are shaking, and he can't help it, he hips begin to grind down against that thigh between his own, slowly at first, and then faster, harder, desperately. It feels like there is electricity running through his veins, feels like his nerves are shooting off without asking his brain for permission. He wants more, needs more…

That green gaze captures his, and that same dark, unspoken hunger is there, tangible and alive and growing between them. "Sammy…" Mr. Winchester's voice is scratchy and coarse and it breaks on the second syllable. Sam can hear the desire in his tone, can smell the sexual tension in the air. He arches up against the other man, pressing his mouth against Mr. Winchester's gloved palm in a kiss.

He feels the acid bite of fear at the back of his tongue again, those misgivings ever present but he pushes past it again and again. He can't fight this impulse to mold his body to that of Mr. Winchester's, to lean in and taste the other man's skin, see if it smells of chocolate and sugar and sweet and tastes of sinister intention.

The chocolatier's eyes are hot, and his hand begins to slide down from Sam's mouth and he is leaning forward with dark purpose, but then the elevator is beginning to slow down, and there is noise from the Masters sister on the reverse end of the elevator and Sam remembers that they aren't alone, after all.

They step away from each other quickly, untangling as fast as they can without trying to draw attention to their side of the elevator. _Not that we haven't already done a bang-up job there_, Sam thinks, flushed to his roots. He straightens his flannel shirt, which has been pushed up around his ribs.

The elevator stops, and Mr. Winchester takes another step away from Sam, making an apparent effort not to look at him. He is breathing heavily, through flared nostrils. He grabs his walking stick from where he left it leaning near the corner, and as the doors slide open, Sam sees that he is gritting his teeth.

"Hey - Sam, you should have watched the floors go by with me," Grandpa Bobby is saying, and Sam suddenly realizes that his grandfather's arm is around his shoulders again and that they are following the Masters sisters out of the elevator. "It was amazing, absolutely amazing. I didn't think it was possible, but this place has gotten even better since I worked here, boy, even better."

Bobby sounds breathless and excited. Sam is breathless and excited, too, but for an entirely different reason, and he tries to be thrilled for him, but he is still trying to will away his now-entirely inappropriate erection. He smiles at his grandfather, anyway, hoping that the older man is mistaking the high flush in his cheeks for shared enthusiasm and the pair turns the corner…

…and cross the threshold of the next room.

TO BE CONTINUED.


	5. o9 & o10 FINAL

**Title**: Delicious.  
**Author**: conclusivelead.  
**Pairing: **Dean/Sam.  
**Burton Movie**: Charlie & the Chocolate Factory.  
**Rating**: R – NC-17.  
**Category**: Angst, drama, darkfic, romance.  
**Word Count**: 4,725.  
**Spoilers**: None; AU.  
**Summary**: "There is a smear of dark on the back of his hand and Sam wants nothing more than to lean forward and place his lips against that bronze and taste the bitter of chocolate and the sweet of skin."  
**Warnings**: AU, chocolate!Kink, introspection, vagueness, cursing, violence, death, frotting, UST, campiness  
**Notes**: To start with, this is NOT posted in the Crossover section of this site, because there are no actual characters from C&tCF in this story. In this fic, the SPN characters have simply been thrust into the roles of C&tCF characters. So this is more along the lines of a SPN AU than an actual crossover. I hope you will indulge my reasoning.

Oh my goodness, I know it took me forever to come out with the final chapter. I'm so, so sorry. It wasn't on purpose - I just got caught up in school. I had finals and AP Exams to take, and then I graduated from high school which was AMAZING and actually kind of anticlimactic, but there you go. Now it's summertime and I've just gotten around to being un-busy (read as: bored) enough to finish editing the last chapter. This IS the final installment of this story. I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

For those interested, I'm in the beginning stages of a SPN one-shot that is about the changes that the brothers' relationship undergoes from the end of Season 3 to the end of Season 4. Look out for it!

**Disclaimer**: Supernatural is the property of Kripke and the CW network. I do not own Supernatural and there is no profit being made from this fanfiction. I also own neither Charlie and the Chocolate Factory or Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

**DELICIOUS 5/5**  
A SPN/Charlie & the Chocolate Factory Crossover…of Sorts

o9

Sam checks the door again: _Television & Advertisement Room_.

Mr. Winchester and the Masters sisters stand just ahead of them inside the colorful room. Posters adorn the walls from ceiling to floor, advertising this brand of chocolate bar and that type of lollipop. There are lines of cardboard cutouts of Mr. Winchester's infamous silhouette, racks of commercial scripts, and tables piled high with papers. There is an exact copy of the banner in the window of Jim's candy shop hung above the doorway. Its bright oranges and reds and yellows draw Sam's eye, and he grins.

"This is the TV and Advertisement Room," Mr. Winchester announces, tapping his walking stick against the floor once. He still sounds a little breathless, but is obviously doing a better job of recovering than Sam. "This is where much of the planning for the factory's advertising takes place."

Meg says, "So this is where you come up with those jingles for the commercials?"

Mr. Winchester shoots her a slightly confused look. "Yes, that's correct."

She snickers, lips thinning and her little sister elbows her, eyes practically shooting out warning beams.

Mr. Winchester looks positively curious now. "If you've got something to say, Miss Masters…" He leaves it an open-ended statement, inviting her to continue.

Her younger sister elbows her again, but Meg's eyes are sparking with the recognition of a challenge. "Honestly, Mr. Winchester? Your commercials can be annoying. The jingles are catchy, yeah, but they get stuck in my head and kind of eventually make want to take a screwdriver to my temple." She smiles lightly, cocking her head to the side and crossing her arms, inviting witty repartee. Mr. Winchester just smiles back, though, and says nothing, allowing her words to sit heavily in the air between them. Meg's sister looks like she could just curl up and die. Sam feels another pang of pity for the younger girl. It's not **her** fault her sister's such a bitch.

"Indeed, Miss Masters." When Mr. Winchester does eventually speak, his tone is light, conversational, pleasant, even, and Sam is reminded again of just how frightening he can be. There is a short pause before he continues, "Well, everyone, take a good look around while you can, we don't have much time to spend here."

Meg stands absolutely still for a few more seconds, but then her sister begins to pull at her arm, inviting her to take a look around at the room's posters and ads and the taller blonde eventually, and somewhat reluctantly, Sam thinks, goes. Grandpa Bobby nudges Sam with his shoulder and points up at the banner that hangs above the doorway, the one that looks exactly like the one in Jim's store. "Isn't there a banner like that hangin' in the shop on Fifth Street, Sam?" Bobby asks, scratching his beard and squinting up at the bright colors.

Sam nods. "Yeah, in Jim's store."

Bobby gives him a strange look. "Who?"

Sam frowns, curly brown hair flopping into his eyes. "Jim. You know - Mom's friend." He pushes the hair out of his face.

Bobby's expression is consternated. "Well, I sure ain't ever heard of him."

Something in the pit of Sam's stomach drops just then, and he feel an odd tingle rush through his limbs similar to the weighty quiver that settles in his muscles after his leg has fallen asleep. He opens his mouth and then closes it, and then opens it again, searching for words and finding none. He doesn't know what to say. He's at a loss.

Grandpa Bobby doesn't seem too bothered by anything, though, and he wanders off to look at posters and talk to Mr. Winchester, who is studying Sam's taken aback expression out of the corner of his eye. Sam eyes are wide and there is a strange, vacant pounding in his ears. Who was Jim, then, if not his mother's friend? How had he known Sam's mother? How had he known Sam? Is this entire incident some strange coincidence? Suddenly, all too suddenly, Sam is lightheaded and there is too much going on in his mind –

_"Well, I sure ain't ever heard of him…"_

_"…I've been expecting you. Sammy, right?..."_

_"…Actually, it's just Sam…."_

_"…Sammy."_ Jim slides Sam's change across the counter before lifting a finger and tapping at his temple, winking slyly. He then reaches forward again and points at the uppermost chocolate bar._ "I'd go with that one if I were you."…_

_…That green gaze captures his, and that same dark, unspoken hunger is there, tangible and alive and growing between them. "Sammy…"_

_"…Sammy…"_

Sam looks up into watchful, possessive olive eyes and knows.

There is too much going on in Sam's head. He smells chocolate and old paper and dust and his skull is pounding. All the anticipation leading up to arriving here at the chocolate factory hadn't left him as breathless and nervous as he is now. This entire thing…this situation – the tour; there are no coincidences involved here, Sam's sure, but he isn't sure how to explain everything that is happening.

He tries to clear his mind, tries to think it through, orders events in his mind, tries to explain just why Mr. Winchester would want him here…how he would know who Sam is in the first place…there is too much, too much going on inside of him. There is certainty, explanation, floating somewhere around his subconscious, but he can't grasp it, can't get a firm enough hold on it. It's elusive, smoke drifting through his psyche, indefinable and vague and teasing.

Sam's head pounds, blood in his ears and thumping his heart against his chest – _bumbum-bumbum-bumbum_ – until there is very little he can hear but the thud of his heart, the rush of blood in his veins, the ringing in his ears.

And beyond that ringing, Sam digs through it all, searching for answers and finding none willing to reveal themselves.

After everything that has already happened, Sam and Bobby really aren't too surprised when Meg's sister returns alone and claims that her sister wandered off alone and has seemingly disappeared. Mr. Winchester doesn't seem shocked himself. In fact, he radiates a strange combination of both excited and tired. Meg's sister just looks terrified, and Sam tries to give her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, pushing his own problems to the back of his mind, but she jerks away from the contact, eyes wide and arms wrapped around herself protectively. He sighs and rubs his eyes. It can't be later than two or three in the afternoon, but he feels like he's been awake for days.

"Alright, Miss Masters," says Mr. Winchester, pulling out the now-familiar handheld radio. "I'm radioing for-"

"No!" says the young blonde, shaking her head wildly. "No, no, no! I want out of here! I want my sister back and I want out of here **now**!"

The green-eyed man sighs, and Sam notices that he has a light etching of crow's feet at the corner of his eyes. He is surprised: Dean Winchester seems ageless, caught up in a sort of eternal state of not-one and not-the-other.

"I'm sorry, Miss Masters, but if you couldn't find your sister then I sincerely doubt that any of us are going to do any better. You've got two options: wait here for the assistance of some of my employees, who will help you look for her, or you can simply take that door over there-" He points with his walking stick to a door at the other side of the room. "-and leave the factory."

His full mouth is firmly set as he waits for the slight blonde to reply. She looks torn, and stares longingly at the door. Sam's eyes are wide, and for a moment he wonders if she's actually considering staying in the factory and waiting for Meg, even after everything that's already happened. He thinks back over every room they've been to, over the people who have disappeared, one by one as they proceeded through the factory, and hopes that Meg's sister will just leave, will just be selfish, will just…

"I'm staying here." Meg's little sister is wavering. Her eyes are filled with tears and her lips are trembling and she reminds Sam of a child.

Mr. Winchester looks satisfied. "Very well." And he raises the radio and presses a button. There is a gargle of static before he begins to speak into the microphone, addressing whomever might be on the other side with unquestionable authority: "Television Room; Miss Master has gone missing; please come here and assist the other Miss Masters in discovering her whereabouts." He is looking at Sam as he says this. There is an excited gleam in the man's brilliant eyes that sends those damned fingers caressing up and down Sam's spine one final time, and Sam knows that the tension between them, the palpable lust and desire and need and want and hunger are about to come to a head.

Sam is disturbed. He doesn't feel right. There is something so wrong about all of this. The tension, yes, but more importantly, the tour itself. Whatever nagging feelings have been bothering him are finally starting to pry past his desire for Mr. Winchester. He is anxious.

How could it be coincidence that they'd lost a person in every room they visited? It couldn't be – just couldn't be.

Then the radio is clicked off and tucked back into the pocket of his purple blazer and Mr. Winchester musters up a kind smile for the frightened girl. "Don't worry, Miss Masters," he says, already beginning to move in Sam's direction. His restlessness is gone, his frustrated-polite mask dissipated, and all that is left is craving. "I promise that nothing will happen to you. I give you my word."

There is a strange sort of sincerity in his voice when he says this. Sam is reminded of a few hours ago when Mr. Winchester greeted him at the front gates with tenderness and earnestness in his voice. There's almost a facet of that in his tone now, as though he, too, pities the younger Masters sister. Sam is left with little time to contemplate just what else may be lying beneath that sincere tone. Mr. Winchester's gloved hand lands on his shoulder and he beckons to Grandpa Bobby excitedly, grin stretching his handsome face.

"Come on, Mr. Bucket, now is the time for the good news!"

They leave the younger Miss Masters standing in the middle of the room, arms wrapped tight around her shoulders and eyes wet with frightened tears. True to Mr. Winchester's word, workers do show up and help her search for her sister; nothing befalls the upset young lady…

…but they never do find her sister.

As soon as they are back in the hall, Mr. Winchester turns to Grandpa Bobby, and Sam knows what is coming next. Sam anticipates what is coming next. Sam wants what is coming next. Mr. Winchester turns to Sam's grandfather and says, "Sam is the winner of my contest, Mr. Bucket."

Grandpa Bobby looks astounded. Sam doesn't. "Contest? What contest?" he asks, eyebrows practically disappearing into his hairline. The older man pushes at his forehead, perplexed. Sam loves his grandfather in that instant, with a strangely-timed swell of affection.

Mr. Winchester looks impatient again, but manages to do an impressive job keeping his temper under control. He is not more than three feet away from Sam. He gloved hands clutch his walking stick with a deadly grip, straining not to reach out and take, take, take NOW. Sam's hands are thrust into his pockets and his eyes are half-lidded. His breath is already coming heavily. "I'm afraid this entire tour was a ruse," Mr. Winchester explains quickly, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Sam bites back a moan. "I devised this in order to randomly choose an heir for my factory. I sent out the Golden Tickets in the hopes that…" His gaze slides to Sam and Sam can see the amusement in those eyes. "…that at least one admirable, decent person would win and I'd have the opportunity to both ensure my factory stays in good hands and grant one lucky person a fortune."

Bobby looks stunned, shocked, disbelieving.

Sam wants to laugh.

"Yes, it's rather harebrained," Mr. Winchester continues, "but it all worked out relatively well in the end, so I'd say all's well that ends well, wouldn't you?"

Sam grins at his grandfather nervously, hands fidgeting restlessly in his pockets. "Isn't this great, Grandpa?" he asks, having a difficult time pretending that he doesn't want to tell his grandfather to go the hell away so he can find out just what Mr. Winchester's game is. And then hopefully get fucked into the nearest surface.

Bobby looks a little doubtful, and Sam doesn't really blame him, but then Mr. Winchester breaks the silence by saying, "Actually, Sam and I should really go up to my office to peruse the paperwork. Perhaps you should go home and tell his mother the good news?" Mr. Winchester is slipping that mask back on again, pretending he isn't restless and ready to drive his tongue down Sam's throat now, now, NOW.

"Go, Grandpa," Sam says, more assertively than he actually meant. Bobby still looks unconvinced, but then he glances away from his grandson and at Mr. Winchester again and sees that his ex-employer is looking at Sam. And then he looks back at Sam and sees that Sam is looking at Mr. Winchester. And he understands the looks on their faces, even if they think they're doing a damn good job hiding the lust and want and need.

And Bobby is not stupid. He is not stupid at all.

He sees it, shining in Sam's gaze as he just barely avoids tracing the lines of Mr. Winchester's body with his eyes. He sees it in the tightening of Mr. Winchester's mouth and the painful grip the glove-clad hands have on his walking stick.

Mr. Winchester pulls out his radio for a final time and makes a quick call to workers, who appear almost immediately out of nowhere, it seems – an escort.

Bobby looks over at his grandson one last time and sees that Sam is…well, no longer a child. Somewhere, sometime, Sam has grown up and Bobby could try all he wanted to tell him what to do, but – there is an angularity to Sam's jaw and a glint in Sam's eyes that tells Bobby it would be futile.

Whatever's really going on here – Sam's on his own.

He follows the escort down the hallway to the elevator and leaves.

o1o

Sam waits until he's sure that Bobby's gone, really gone. All he wants to do is turn around and pounce, but he refuses to let in and instead runs a hand through his hair. His lips part to speak and he's ready to say it, ready to ask, "What's really going on here?" but there are fingers on the side of his neck and he is being jerked sideways. There is a fire being lit inside him at the touch of that hand. That fire nearly silences his rational side completely, but there remains some part of Sam that is doubtful and scared even as his senses explode.

"Sammy…" Mr. Winchester's voice is dark, trembling, raspy, filled with that gripping, almost-satisfying thing that drives Sam positively wild. The teenager's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows thickly. Mr. Winchester's eyes follow the movement and the fingers on Sam's neck tighten slightly.

"I-I need…we need to talk," Sam manages to get out despite it all.

Mr. Winchester's eyes are blazing. "About what exactly, Sam Bucket?"

"About…" Sam searches for the right words, but falls short and instead lifts both arms, gesturing at the hall around them. "About all this, about everything: the ticket, the factory, the tour, the-"

"-the inexplicable, irrefutable attraction between me and you?" Mr. Winchester finishes, grinning wickedly. Light glints off his incisors. His gloved fingers slide a shiver-inducing caress down Sam's back.

"Y-yeah." Sam swallows again. "Is there somewhere we can go to talk?"

The chocolatier's eyebrows rise up about an inch before settling back in place above his eyes. "Yes." His hand settles in the arch of Sam's lower back, possessive but soothing, too. "Yes, there's somewhere we can go."

-

The room is spacious, decorated in sophisticated reds and browns and golds. Mr. Winchester gestures for Sam to take a seat and Sam does. He scans the study with a considerate gaze – tall bookshelves, a wide mahogany desk…a window sends beams of failing light across the wood grain of the desktop, and then it's sending beams of light across eggplant fabric, white gloves, dark blond hair, and full lips. Mr. Winchester's eyes are closed as he settles into place on top of the desk. His legs cross at the ankles and then he is still for a careful moment. Silence fills the room, and the chocolatier tugs at the wrists of his gloves, pulling them more snugly onto his hands.

The man's eyes remain closed as he sighs and says, "Alright, Sam." He seems resigned, and for the first time since Sam met him there is a noticeable absence of strength – no artificial composure, no fake smile or false affability. He is empty of everything except the tiredness that casts shadows beneath his closed olive eyes. Sam wants nothing more than to reach out and smooth his fingertips through those shadows, banish them.

The tall young man rubs at his eyes in an effort to placate the urge, but his hand just tingles, nerves sizzling beneath his skin. "The tour?" He doesn't know what to say or where to start, and so just begins where his frazzled mind can begin.

"All a hoax, set up as a means to an end."

The directness of the other man's answer surprises Sam a little. He'd expected – well, he wasn't really sure what he'd expected, actually. "The other guests who disappeared? I don't…" He struggles for words. His fingers dig into the soft leather of the armchair.

"Take your time," Mr. Winchester advises softly, arms crossed and eyes still closed. His face is dark, expectant, as though he is bracing himself.

"I'm not sure I can believe that all the disappearances are just a coincidence. There…" Conflict swims in Sam's hazel eyes and he wants to cry. "…what really happened here today? Do I even want to know?" His breath catches as he struggles to stay calm. He's so angry at himself for getting upset about this, about something that may be nothing.

Mr. Winchester stays quiet for a long, long moment. Then he sighs and anxiety is apparent in the crinkling of his forehead. "All those people – Uriel Gregory, Ruby Carpenter, Meg Masters, all of them – they were bad people, Sam. Selfish fools who cared for nothing but money and materialistic…" His frustration is obvious. He is the one searching for the right words now. "I don't know what to say that would explain to you just what those people were like."

There is anger and maybe even hate in his tone as he describes the way Miss Masters cheated and paid her way through her first years of college and how Ruby Carpenter and her father were rich, yes, but at others' expense. There is more explanation about all of the others, but Sam is overwhelmed. He should be taken aback, should be scared shitless, but he isn't.

Once the rant is over and it's Sam's turn, all he can say is, "Do I want to know the truth?"

And he can't lie to him. "No."

There is a certain amount of trust in the older man's admittance of this. Hearing that he doesn't want to know the truth is all Sam needs to know just what the truth is. This is it, he realizes as the last of the light disappears from the window. This is his chance to escape, to return to his house, kiss his mother, go to bed, and continue on with the life he'd been leading. Somehow this entire day feels like an out-of-body experience. The last twenty-four hours are almost like something from a dream, like a day he lived in a past life or in a dimension that exists outside the restrictions of time. Sam thinks about yesterday and the day before that and the day before that and realizes that there is very little to distinguish yesterday from a day five years ago. His life has been nothing but monotony and work and anxious anticipation of something better…

Sam looks up into the face of the man a few feet away and studies the faint laugh lines that frame those perfect lips.

_Something better_.

"Jim?" Sam knows what to say finally, and he suspects he knows what he'll hear. He watches Mr. Winchester's throat move as he swallows and when the older man exhales, the breath is shaky with relief and contentment.

"Hmm." It's not quite a laugh, but it's not quite anything else, either – a strange combination of worn-out amusement and something like pride. "A friend of mine - of my father's really, but a friend all the same."

"You told him to give me the ticket, told him which chocolate bar to give me." It isn't a question; just a statement of what Sam knows now is fact.

"I don't tell Jim anything," he corrects, chuckling a little. "I asked him to do me this one thing, this…favor." Mr. Winchester's mouth twists in his face, as though the word 'favor' isn't right, like it doesn't fit what he wants to say but he can't decide on a word that's better. "I needed his help getting…" His eyes open now, and they are automatically focused on Sam, who fidgets under that direct green gaze. "I needed his help getting you here."

Their eyes lock for a brief moment and then Mr. Winchester looks away. The intensity is back, and it's overwhelming. The chocolatier reaches for his walking stick, which rests beside him on the desk. He plays with it, moving it from one hand to the other and then back again. It is a simple distraction, but Sam is tired of distractions and he is tired of sorting through reality. In this place, with this man, reality is suspended and Sam wants to take the plunge.

Mr. Winchester's walking stick is thrown to the ground and his hands are sliding down the back of Sam's pants and Sam's lips are in danger of becoming permanently attached to Mr. Winchester's throat when Sam breathes, "Dean…" and just like that, Mr. Winchester isn't Mr. Winchester anymore. He is no longer an unreachable goal; he is here, in Sam's hands and mouth and deeper than that, too.

Dean's tongue traces the shell of Sam's ear and he laughs when Sam gasps. He pulls the tall young man out of the armchair. Sam stumbles to his feet clumsily and the two nearly fall, laughing as Sam's long legs get tangled with Dean's.

Sam pushes Dean's velvet blazer from his shoulders, delighting more in the breadth of his shoulders than in the feel of the velvet against his calloused fingers. Dean fumbles with the buttons on Sam's button-up flannel, gloves and lust making his fingers clumsy and slow. Sam stops him, reaching down and carefully peeling the gloves off his hands. Once the gloves are gone, Sam pauses, staring at the golden skin, the long fingers, the well-kept nails. He catches Dean's gaze with his own and draws the left hand up to his mouth, kissing each and every finger softy, gently. His tongue slips out from between his lips and ever-so-lightly touches the very center of Dean's palm, drawing out a moan from the shorter man.

Dean's hat is gone, disappeared somewhere in the hallway. Sam wraps his hand around the back of his neck and pulls him forward to finally taste that full mouth. Lips cling and Sam eagerly sucks at Dean's lower lip, taking control of the kiss quickly. Dean swipes his tongue across Sam's mouth and Sam gasps, lips parting. The older man delves his tongue inside, dragging the muscle along every obtainable surface, taking delight in the taste and the feel and the texture. Sam is breathing heavily through his nose and Dean is now completely in control. He pulls back a little, biting at Sam's lips playfully and mouthing at his chin. He pulls his lips across Sam's jaw, down to Sam's neck. Sam arches back, granting access.

For a moment, Dean's mouth disappears, and then there is suddenly something warm and solid being spread across Sam's neck. He knows without asking.

Dean drags his tongue through the half-melted chocolate with sinful delight, the low murmur at the back of his throat almost a purr. Sam is backed against the door now, and he is sliding, sliding down, knees weak. Dean keeps licking, keeps sucking, keeps using lips and tongue and teeth to scrape and slick away that chocolate trail.

He grins against Sam's skin, teeth dragging. "Delicious…"

It's gone far too soon, and Sam is unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way, revealing sleek, browned skin that asks for attention.

But Sam is pushing Dean down and taking the chocolate from his hands and peeling back the wrapper. He tears away the starched confines of Dean's dress shirt and uses his free hand to tear off a piece of the candy bar. He crumbles it in his fingers and then smears it across Dean's chest and neck. His fingers rub at the sensitive nubs of flesh that are Dean's nipples, and the chocolatier makes a loud noise that is somewhere between a gasp and a groan, and all Sam knows is that he really wants to hear him do that again.

He bends over and wraps his lips around the hardened nub of Dean's left nipple, sucking lightly at first, and then biting and tugging. He worries it with teeth and then soothes it with tongue, repeating the process over and over as Dean writhes beneath him and his right hand imitates the act on the other side.

"Sammy…" Sam tugs at the sensitized flesh once, twice, and Dean's hips buck up. "Saaaam…."

Sam's hand finds Dean's cock and rests on the fabric just above it, lightly teasing with the barest of touches. His hips buck again, and Sam growls, feeling dominant and possessive and hungry. He wedges his thigh between Dean's and begins a slow, rocking rhythm. Sam's groin grinds directly against Dean's as the two work toward the inevitable. There is chocolate in Sam's hair and chocolate all over Dean's face, and there is chocolate in their mouths as tongue meets tongue and the inevitable is reached.

It's over too quickly, far too quickly, and Sam rests his head just below Dean's collarbone, careless of the sticky mess in his pants or the saliva and chocolate all over the chest he is using as a pillow. Dean combs his messy fingers through Sam's curly, damp hair and breathes in the sweet, familiar smell.

Chocolate.

_Streams and streams and cascades and cascades of pure, melted chocolate, and it's_…all theirs.

"I wasn't lying when I said that I want you to inherit the factory."

Sam isn't sure how to reply to this, so he just arches his neck up and plants a slow, soft kiss on Dean's mouth. When it's over he lowers his face into the crook of Dean's neck.

"I watched for you," Sam says.

"I know," Dean replies, green eyes half-lidded. It's been a long day. "I watched for you, too."

There is so much to say, so much to tell.

Sam wants to ask just how Dean had known who he was, how he'd figured out that Sam had been dreaming about him his entire life; he wants to talk about his family and sports and his favorite flavor of ice cream. Dean wants to talk about his father, wants to talk about chocolate, wants to talk about his need for Sam, but he doesn't say a word and neither does Sam.

There will be time for all that later.

They have all the time in the world.

[END]


End file.
